Can I offer you a book?
by MartaSwan
Summary: "Can I offer you a book?" he asked."What?", she said."You wanted it right?"She nodded."Then it's yours, love"."Let me guess, I have to come home with you so you can "show me your book", right?Who tells me you're not going to drug me and take one of my kidneys and sell it to the black market?".Emma Swan has never been the trusting type, but maybe she could make an exception. AU


**Ok so this was just a little something that popped into my mind. It all started with something a friend of mine posted on FB that more or less said: it would be so wonderful if, instead of trying to buy cocktails to girls, guys started to buy them books. And I started saying that yes, at least you know that there's nothing weird in it and you don't have to worry about the effect of alcohol on your body and inhibitions etc. etc. But, being myself, I started thinking that I would be probably be still a bit guarded, and one thing led to another and this is it. I see so much of myself in Emma, and I think she would be defensive and suspicious (though I consider myself the perfect mix of Emma and Regina. Not saying that I'm perfect in any way!).**

 **The creepy book lover things depicted here are 100% me. Sorry. And The Outcast is seriously a wonderful book. Such as Winifred Wolfe's books. She was plainly brilliant.**

 **For now it is just a one-shot, but I could probably write more if given the encouragement *wink wink-reviews-wink wink*.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **This is unbetaed, as always. Sorry for any mistakes.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _A… B… C… D…_ She kept strolling along the seemingly endless aisle, looking at the bright colored letters that indicated the first letter of every surnames of each section, a tiny scrap of paper tightly clutched in her hand.

 _E…F…_ her eyes caught sight of a salmon colored cover, that she recognized immediately as the one of one of her favorite books. "And what are you doing here?", she whispered to herself (actually, she was asking it to the book, but no one needs to know about her habit to talk to inanimate objects), since Winifred Wolfe wasn't supposed to be in the _F_ section. She tugged it under her arm and continued walking down the hall, forcing herself to remember to put it down where it belong instead of taking it with herself to the desk and buying it, as it often happened.

There were very few people in the bookshop, as it was expected on a Tuesday evening, and it was both thrilling and worrying for her: as a passionate book lover the loneliness gave her the freedom to look up every book that caught her eye, to take it into her hands, to study it, and to repeat the process with every single book she wished, without having to worry about being in other people's way, or being pushed and pulled, or about the way too long line of people waiting to pay. The downside was that being able to loose herself in the paradise that is a bookshop, her mind focused only on the hundreds of books in front of her, drinking in all in and eyeing that treasure like a starving man looks at a piece of cake, made her lose track of time. Embarrassingly so. And she had things to do, and a life to live and people to interact with and, as much as she'd love to, she couldn't spend two hours of her day wandering among books with a dazed expression that could be seen on the faces of frequent weed consumers. It just wouldn't do. And let's not even talk about the obscene quantity of money she spent on books. She could easily picture herself getting into debts because of her uncontrollable book shopping. Well, what can she say? Some girls love shoes, she loves books. At least, if things get really nasty, she could always sell them in the future if they're in good shape. Books are always in trend. You can't say the same for shoes.

 _L...M…N..._ She noticed a man standing in front of her, turning a book over in his hands, and she was careful to avoid bumping straight into him. It happened before and people weren't always nice when it did. In an instant she was standing in front of the _W_ section and placing the book in its rightful place, smiling at it, and then started to make her way toward the exit of the shop when she noticed a book on a shelf just at her eye level and stopped in her tracks to take a closer look at it. The Outcast, written by Sadie Jones, looked like the kind of book she would read in a rush, one of those rare books that had her hooked from the first line to the last, absorbing her even while she ate or she was supposed to pay attention to a lecture…

Oh, yes! The lecture! She had forgotten for a moment the main reason as to why she was in a book shop on a Tuesday evening. Her professor had assigned them an essay about the cultural and psychological meanings of fairy tales, giving them plenty of freedom as to how approach and develop the subject. And that, as always, was a slippery slope: on one hand, she was free to choose which angle to use to explain her ideas and arguments; on the other, the risk of being mainstream and boring was oh so very tangible with such a broad and rich subject, and it terrified her.

That was why she chose to adopt a specific point of view on the matter, one she was pretty sure wouldn't be used by others, and after desperately searching for days at the library and on the internet for some consulting material, she miraculously found the title of the book she was about to buy.

If she managed to find it of course, since this was the eighth book shop she had visited in two days, and it seemed as if this book didn't exist, or if it did it was now lost to humanity.

She slapped herself on the forehead, she then looked at the crumpled piece of paper in her hands and turned on her heels, slowing her pace at the _M_ section, stopping to read every surname on every book. Mann, Melville, Miller, Mitchell…she stopped her perusing and checked once again all the previous books. She sighed, if the book was there, it was not placed in the right alphabetical order. Mitchell, Moore… she went through all the surnames, through every book of that section, but there was no trace of the one she needed. Of course it could have just been misplaced, but she really couldn't spend the evening going through every single book of the freaking shop. It would take ages or more, since she didn't even know how the cover was, so she had nothing to help her with her searching. She groaned, looking around for a clerk, someone, anyone really that could help her, at least that could tell her if they did have the book or if it was a lost cause and she shouldn't waste time there. She resumed her walking, the man she avoided before still standing in the same spot, turned his head a little to look at her passing, probably wondering what she was doing walking up and down the bookstore in such a frenzy, she thought. As she walked, she noticed other books that looked promising, and after ten minutes she found herself carrying five books of which one was about the less known versions of the most common fairy tales, one about the psychological analysis of fairy tales and myths, two talked of the use of fairy tales in the movie and television business, and another one was an analysis of the historical and cultural contest of the most famous fairy tales, explaining the true meaning that they held at the time and how they were used to give rules to the population and explain to the poorer moral principles and behavior. Not really what she wanted, but better than nothing.

"It is 45.70$", the girl at the desk told her with a courteous smile, bags under her eyes which wandered tiredly around the shop, not lingering on anything for too much, probably too tired to really put anything into focus.

"Excuse me, do you happen to have _'Once upon a Time. What happens after happily ever after?' by Henry Mills_?", she asked the girl.

The red shirted woman, typed the title an author, asking Emma to repeat it, and she shook her head as she stared at the screen. "No, I'm sorry but we do not have it.".

Emma nodded, her shoulders slumping, "Can I order it?" she asked, even if she already knew the answer.

The girl kept shaking her head, "It's not possible, it's be discontinued. I'm sorry", she smiled meekly at her. Just like every other assistant at the previous seven book stores.

She smiled sadly, "It doesn't matter. Thank you very much", and she reached in her bag for her wallet.

It was when she opened her wallet that Emma realized that she had forgot her credit card at home (at least, she hope it was at home) and that she didn't have enough cash to pay for all six books. It was a hard decision, but a quick one. Of course her priority were the books she needed for her essay. It was with a sad sigh that she took the money from her wallet and put The Outcast down on the desk, "I think I'll leave this one here, and I'll just buy these", she told the girl, handing her the five books.

"I'll buy it", came a voice from behind her. A very sexy, accented and velvety voice. Emma turned slowly to face the only other person in line, and in the book shop, other than her.

He was a tall man, dressed in dark clothes (she really wasn't able to take a good look at every item of clothing he was wearing), with a black leather jacket that caught her eye (yes, she had a thing for leather jackets, okay?), black tousled hair and black thick eyebrows (since when did she notice eyebrows?) that framed two mesmerizing icy blue eyes. His rosy lips were smiling slightly at her, and she had to remember herself not to stare at them, or he would read too much into it and what if he was a psycho?

"What?" she asked flatly.

"I'll buy it", he repeated unfazed.

She shrugged, pursing her lips, trying to not be irritated by his actions. The book wasn't hers and she wasn't going to buy it, so if he wanted it he could purchase it. It wasn't _her_ book after all.

But still, she did have the weirdest and creepiest relationship with book, so _of course_ she felt territorial about a book she just touched.

"Okay", she said, and turned to pay for her books, putting the charge in her wallet clumsily (as always) while the man payed for his books.

As she leaned to grab the bag that held her new belongings, the man, who was standing right next to her, closer to the door, took something out of his bag and turned it to her.

"Can I offer you a book?" he asked, a flirty but joking ring to it clear under the waves of accent and velvet that poured from his mouth.

"What?", she eyed the book that was handed to her. _Her_ book.

He was still smiling and waved the book in her direction, "You wanted it right?"

She nodded stupidly. Really Emma? That's the best you can do?, she thought to herself.

He shrugged, "Then it's yours, love".

She took a step, careful to circle him and reached the door, "No, thanks. And my name's not love". She said as she pushed open the glass doors. The evening air was humid and cold, a relief from the scorching heat in the book shop.

He followed her, and her heart beat a bit faster, because, seriously who knew who he was? He could have just gotten out of jail for all she knew.

"And what's your name then?" he asked walking with her.

She stopped, "Listen, you seem nice, and what you did was really kind but I'm not going to engage into a conversation with a complete stranger, and I hate debts, so I can't really accept the book. Thanks, have a good evening".

She turned and resumed her walking on the sidewalk, but he caught up to her. She was just a little bit scared right now. After all, she didn't have any family in the city, and not many friends she could call, and she lived alone, so if anything happened to her it would be quite a bit before anyone noticed. It was probably paranoid but when you have no one waiting for you at home who would noticed your absence, you think about these things and yes, you become paranoid. She liked to call it 'survival instinct' instead of 'paranoia'. It sounded so much better.

"Well you don't have to accept this one necessarily", he went on, slightly out of breath. She furrowed her brows, but kept walking at high speed. Do not listen to him, that's how every thriller movie starts, with a girl that talks to the wrong man and ends up locked in a dungeon for ten years with dyed hair and not remembering her own name. "It could be another one, like, well… I don't know…Once Upon A Time by Henry Mills?" he asked with a smirk.

That made her pause. "Really?" she said, suspicion lacing every syllable she uttered. She squinted her eyes, crossed her arms on her chest and now she took the time to look him up and down. Judging by the cut and state of his clothes he probably hadn't just gotten out of jail, and he was obviously someone who took care of himself, bathed regularly, had clean nails, white teeth and styled hair. That was always a good sign. He seemed friendly and open, his eyes were flirty but not sleazy, they didn't go over her body as if she was an object or a meal (something that she didn't always mind to be honest) and, more importantly, he wasn't invading her personal space.

He nodded, "Really".

"Let me guess, I have to come home with you so you can "show me your book", right?", yes, she actually did air quotes, she thought they helped deliver the message straight and clear, in case her sarcastic tone wasn't enough. And often it was not enough. "And how do I know that you actually own the book? You could have just heard me and made it up to approach me, thinking me naïve enough to fall for it."

He opened his mouth but she cut him off, "Who tells me you're not a psycho? A rapist? Who tells me you're not going to drug me and take one of my kidneys and sell it on the black market?". He was looking at her with wide eyes. Did she sound like a bitter crazy old lady? Yes. Was she embarrassed? A little. Was she going to put her safety in danger because of that? Absolutely not.

She went on, not missing a beat, "I watch the news, I see what happens. So, as tempting as it sounds, and it is tempting, I'll find another way to consult that book. It's 2015 after all. Have a good day", and just as she was turning her back on him he called out to her."You can't", he said.

Really, she should have just kept on walking. But she halted and turned half her body in his direction, looking at the passing cars on the street in front of her, "What do you mean?", she asked coldly, not looking at him.

"I mean that there are a handful of copies of that book, spread across the world God knows where. And you won't find any copy of that on the internet, the author made sure of that. And I probably own the only copy in the USA and it's the first copy ever with an handwritten dedication of the author himself." He explained.

She looked at him. He appeared to be trustworthy. He didn't look like a serial killer, but then again, if serial killers looked like serial killers they world would be a safer place right? But she had always trusted her gut, and it never failed her.

He sighed, sensing her hesitation and took a cautious step closer, hands up as if in surrender, "Look, I understand how you feel. Really. And I'm not asking you to come home to me" he made a shocked face, as if the idea was absolutely crazy, "I would never even think about it. Not that you're not attractive, that's not what I mean", he sighed and his shoulder slumped "Shit, this came out all wrong", he whispered. He scratched the back of his neck and, was that a blush creeping up his cheeks?

"Okay, let's start this over." He outstretched his right hand for her to shake, a jovial smile on his face, "Hi, I'm Killian Jones".

She looked at it with a guarded expression, as if it was a wild animal, and a full minute passed before she shook it. It was surprisingly warm despite the harsh weather. "Nice to meet you Killian" she said, a small tight lipped smile on her face.

His one broadened, "So, I'm an engineering student, almost done with it actually", he made a small exultation move with his fist, and she had to smile at that. "I am not a serial killer, or a rapist, and I wouldn't even know where to start in order to extract one of your kidneys, nor who to sell it to" he chuckled, his hand still moving on his neck. She kept looking at him. "So, I wanted to ask you if you wanted to meet somewhere very public to look at that book you seemed to be so interested in".

She was silent for a few moments, rapidly processing everything he said and everything he didn't say but she noticed anyway, listing the pros and cons. Her hand went to the pocket of her favorite jacket, a very expensive red leather one she cherished like a treasure, and pulled out her smartphone. She unlocked it and went to her contact list, creating a new contact, typing Killian as the contact's name, then looked up at him, "Give me your number" she said.

He seemed startled by her command, but after a few seconds recited the number. She saved it in her card memory. She sighed and met his eyes, "Okay Killian. Tomorrow, at three o'clock in a café near the library. I'll send you the name and address. Thank you very much for doing this, it means a lot to me" she said smiling, feeling awkward all of a sudden.

"Can I have your number?", he asked grinning at her, "It seems only fair, love. And moreover, practical", he added, rising his eyebrow. How did he do that?

"Don't worry about it, you won't need it", she smiled sarcastically (could a smile be sarcastic? Hers could). No way she was giving him her number. She had a stalker in the past and she really didn't want to repeat the experience. "See you tomorrow Killian", she made to leave but he reached out an arm to stop her, though he didn't touch her.

"Wait, at least tell me your name" he said tiredly. Yes, she had this effect on men. She drained them, she had been told. Her walls, or more specifically, trying to overcome or break down her walls, was too exhausting of a task for anyone she ever met. And she usually felt bad for them, because she really wished she could take those walls down and just let the poor men in, but she didn't know how to do it. But those were people she knew, people she cared for in some kind of way. So it was surprising to realized that she felt bad for Killian, this guy she had only just met and thought could be a serial killer not more than ten minutes ago.

He seemed to genuinely be a kind person, someone worth trust (or at least not a psycho), open and kind. After all, good people did exist and it was possible that this time she had met one of them. There was the possibility that he was just kind, or at least not mentally unstable. Or at the very least not a mentally unstable of the violent kind. And, as absurd as it sounded, she knew he wasn't. She knew she could trust him with her physical safety. Her gut gave her the green light regarding Killian, and her gut had never failed her. She hoped it wouldn't start now.

She took his hand, that was lifted halfway between them, and shook it firmly, a small smile on her face. "Nice to meet you Killian. My name is Emma".

* * *

 **I would love to hear what you think of it!**

 **Baci!**

 **Marta**


End file.
